Luring a Lady (12 page)

He stiffened, and she knew she'd guessed correctly. “You have no way of proving the leak came from my office.”

“You'd be surprised what I can prove,” she bluffed. “I told you I wanted your loyalty or your resignation if the board stood behind me in the Soho project. We both know your loyalty is out of the question.”

“I'll tell you what you'll get.” There was a sneer in his voice, but beneath the neat gray suit, he was sweating. “I'll be sitting behind that desk when you're back in Europe dancing from shop to shop.”

“No, Lloyd. You'll never sit behind this desk. As the major stockholder of Hayward, I'll see to that. Now,” she continued quietly, “it wasn't necessary for me to document to the board the many cases in which you've ignored my requests, overlooked complaints from clients, tenants and other associates at the meeting on Friday. I will do so, however, at the next. In the current climate, I believe my wishes will be met.”

His fingers curled. He imagined the satisfaction of hooking them around her throat. “You think because you skidded through one mess, because your senile grandfather plopped you down at that desk, you can shoehorn me out? Lady, I'll bury you.”

Coolly she inclined her head. “You're welcome to try. If you don't manage it, it may be difficult for you to find a similar position with another company.” Her eyes iced over. “If you don't think I have any influence, or the basic guts to carry this off, you're making a mistake. You have twenty-four hours to consider your options. This meeting is over.”

“Why you cold-blooded bitch.”

She stood, and this time it was she who leaned over her desk. “Take me on,” she said in a quiet voice. “Do it.”

“This isn't over.” Turning on his heel, he marched to the door to swing it open hard enough that it banged against the wall.

After three deep breaths, Sydney sank into her chair. Okay, she was shaking—but only a little. And it was temper, she realized as she pressed a testing hand against her stomach. Not fear. Good, solid temper. She found she didn't need to vent any anger by mangling paper clips or shredding stationery. In fact, she found she felt just wonderful.

M
ikhail stirred the mixture of meats and spices and tomatoes in the old cast-iron skillet and watched the street below through his kitchen window. After a sniff and a taste, he added another splash of red wine to the mixture. Behind him in the living room
The Marriage of Figaro
soared from the stereo.

He wondered how soon Sydney would arrive.

Leaving the meal to simmer, he walked into the living room to study the rosewood block that was slowly becoming her face.

Her mouth. There was a softness about it that was just emerging. Testing, he measured it between his index finger and thumb. And remembered how it had tasted, moving eagerly under his. Hot candy, coated with cool, white wine. Addictive.

Those cheekbones, so aristocratic, so elegant. They could add a regal, haughty look one moment, or that of an ice-blooded warrior the next. That firm, proud jawline—he traced a fingertip along it and thought of how sensitive and smooth her skin was there.

Her eyes, he'd wondered if he'd have problems with her eyes. Oh, not the shape of them—that was basic to craft, but the feeling in them, the mysteries behind them.

There was still so much he needed to know.

He leaned closer until he was eye to eye with the half-formed bust. “You will let me in,” he whispered. At the knock on the door, he stayed where he was, peering into Sydney's emerging face. “Is open.”

“Hey, Mik.” Keely breezed in wearing a polka-dotted T-shirt and shorts in neon green. “Got anything cold? My fridge finally gave up the ghost.”

“Help yourself,” he said absently, “I'll put you on top of the list for the new ones.”

“My hero.” She paused in the kitchen to sniff at the skillet. “God, this smells sinful.” She tipped the spoon in and took a sample. “It is sinful. Looks like a lot for one.”

“It's for two.”

“Oh.” She gave the word three ascending syllables as she pulled a soft drink out of the refrigerator. The smell was making her mouth water, and she glanced wistfully at the skillet again. “Looks like a lot for two, too.”

He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Put some in a bowl. Simmer it a little longer.”

“You're a prince, Mik.” She rattled in his cupboards. “So who's the lucky lady?”

“Sydney Hayward.”

“Sydney.” Her eyes widened. The spoon she held halted in midair above the pan of bubbling goulash. “Hayward,” she finished. “You mean the rich and beautiful Hayward who wears silk to work and carries a six-hundred-dollar purse, which I personally priced at Saks. She's coming here, to have dinner and everything?”

He was counting on the everything. “Yes.”

“Gee.” She couldn't think of anything more profound. But she wasn't sure she liked it. No, she wasn't sure at all, Keely thought as she scooped her impromptu dinner into a bowl.

The rich were different. She firmly believed it. And this lady was rich in capital letters. Keely knew Mikhail had earned some pretty big bucks with his art, but she couldn't think of him as rich. He was just Mik, the sexy guy next door who was always willing to unclog a sink or kill a spider or share a beer.

Carrying the bowl, she walked over to him and noticed his latest work in progress. “Oh,” she said, but this time it was only a sigh. She would have killed for cheekbones like that.

“You like?”

“Sure, I always like your stuff.” But she shifted from foot to foot. She didn't like the way he was looking at the face in the wood. “I, ah, guess you two have more than a business thing going.”

“Yes.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets as he looked into Keely's troubled eyes. “This is a problem?”

“Problem? No, no problem.” She worried her lower lip. “Well, it's just—boy, Mik, she's so uptown.”

He knew she was talking about more than an address, but smiled and ran a hand over her hair. “You're worried for me.”

“Well, we're pals, aren't we? I can't stand to see a pal get hurt.”

Touched, he kissed her nose. “Like you did with the actor with the skinny legs?”

She moved her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess. But I wasn't in love with him or anything. Or only a little.”

“You cried.”

“Sure, but I'm a wienie. I tear up during greeting card commercials.” Dissatisfied, she looked back at the bust. Definitely uptown.
“A woman who looks like that, I figure she could drive a guy to joining the Foreign Legion or something.”

He laughed and ruffled her hair. “Don't worry. I'll write.”

Before she could think of anything else, there was another knock. Giving Keely a pat on the shoulder, he went to answer it.

“Hi.” Sydney's face brightened the moment she saw him. She carried a garment bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. “Something smells wonderful. My mouth started watering on the third floor, and…” She spotted Keely standing near the worktable with a bowl cupped in her hands. “Hello.” After clearing her throat, Sydney told herself she would not be embarrassed to have Mikhail's neighbor see her coming into his apartment with a suitcase.

“Hi. I was just going.” Every bit as uncomfortable as Sydney, Keely darted back into the kitchen to grab her soft drink.

“It's nice to see you again.” Sydney stood awkwardly beside the open door. “How did your murder go?”

“He strangled me in three takes.” With a fleeting smile, she dashed through the door. “Enjoy your dinner. Thanks, Mik.”

When the door down the hall slammed shut, Sydney let out a long breath. “Does she always move so fast?”

“Mostly.” He circled Sydney's waist with his hands. “She is worried you will seduce me, use me, then toss me aside.”

“Oh, well, really.”

Chuckling, he nipped at her bottom lip. “I don't mind the first two.” As his mouth settled more truly on hers, he slipped the garment bag out of her lax fingers and tossed it aside. Taking the bottle of wine, he used it to push the door closed at her back. “I like your dress. You look like a rose in sunshine.”

Freed, her hands could roam along his back, slip under the
chambray work shirt he hadn't tucked into his jeans. “I like the way you look, all the time.”

His lips were curved as they pressed to her throat. “You're hungry?”

“Mmm. Past hungry. I had to skip lunch.”

“Ten minutes,” he promised, and reluctantly released her. If he didn't, dinner would be much, much later. “What have you brought us?” He twisted the bottle in his hand to study the label. One dark brow lifted. “This will humble my goulash.”

With her eyes shut, Sydney took a long, appreciative sniff. “No, I don't think so.” Then she laughed and took the bottle from him. “I wanted to celebrate. I had a really good day.”

“You will tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let's find some glasses that won't embarrass this champagne.”

 

She didn't know when she'd been more charmed. He had set a small table and two chairs on the tiny balcony off the bedroom. A single pink peony graced an old green bottle in the center, and music drifted from his radio to lull the sounds of traffic. Thick blue bowls held the spicy stew, and rich black bread was heaped in a wicker basket.

While they ate, she told him about her decision to promote Janine, and her altercation with Lloyd.

“You ask for his resignation. You should fire him.”

“It's a little more complicated than that.” Flushed with success, Sydney lifted her glass to study the wine in the evening sunlight. “But the result's the same. If he pushes me, I'll have to go before the board. I have memos, other documentation. Take this building, for example.” She tapped a finger on the old brick. “My grandfather
turned it over to Lloyd more than a year ago with a request that he see to tenant demands and maintenance. You know the rest.”

“Then perhaps I am grateful to him.” He reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, placing his lips just beneath the jet drops she wore. “If he had been honest and efficient, I wouldn't have had to be rude in your office. You might not be here with me tonight.”

Taking his hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “Maybe I should have given him a raise.” She turned her lips into his palm, amazed at how easy it had become for her to show her feelings.

“No. Instead, we'll think this was destiny. I don't like someone that close who would like to hurt you.”

“I know he leaked Mrs. Wolburg's story to the press.” Worked up again, Sydney broke off a hunk of bread. “His anger toward me caused him to put Hayward in a very unstable position. I won't tolerate that, and neither will the board.”

“You'll fix it.” He split the last of the champagne between them.

“Yes, I will.” She was looking out over the neighborhood, seeing the clothes hung on lines to dry in the sun, the open windows where people could be seen walking by or sitting in front of televisions. There were children on the sidewalk taking advantage of a long summer day. When Mikhail's hand reached for hers, she gripped it tightly.

“Today, for the first time,” she said quietly, “I felt in charge. My whole life I went along with what I was told was best or proper or expected.” Catching herself, she shook her head. “That doesn't matter. What matters is that sometime over the last few months I started to realize that to be in charge meant you had to take charge. I finally did. I don't know if you can understand how that feels.”

“I know what I see. And this is a woman who is beginning to trust
herself, and take what is right for her.” Smiling, he skimmed a finger down her cheek. “Take me.”

She turned to him. He was less than an arm's length away. Those dark, untamed looks would have set any woman's heart leaping. But there was more happening to her than an excited pulse. She was afraid to consider it. There was only now, she reminded herself, and reached for him. He held her, rubbing his cheek against her hair, murmuring lovely words she couldn't understand.

“I'll have to get a phrase book.” Her eyes closed on a sigh as his mouth roamed over her face.

“This one is easy.” He repeated a phrase between kisses.

She laughed, moving willingly when he drew her to her feet. “Easy for you to say. What does it mean?”

His lips touched hers again. “I love you.”

He watched her eyes fly open, saw the race of emotion in them run from shock to hope to panic. “Mikhail, I—”

“Why do the words frighten you?” he interrupted. “Love doesn't threaten.”

“I didn't expect this.” She put a hand to his chest to insure some distance. Eyes darkening, Mikhail looked down at it, then stepped back.

“What did you expect?”

“I thought you were…” Was there no delicate way? “I assumed that you…”

“Wanted only your body,” he finished for her, and his voice heated. He had shown her so much, and she saw so little. “I do want it, but not only. Will you tell me there was nothing last night?”

“Of course not. It was beautiful.” She had to sit down, really had to. It felt as though she'd jumped off a cliff and landed on her head.
But he was looking at her in such a way that made her realize she'd better stay on her feet.

“The sex was good.” He picked up his glass. Though he was tempted to fling it off the balcony, he only sipped. “Good sex is necessary for the body and for the state of mind. But it isn't enough for the heart. The heart needs love, and there was love last night. For both of us.”

Her arms fell uselessly to her sides. “I don't know. I've never had good sex before.”

He considered her over the rim of his glass. “You were not a virgin. You were married before.”

“Yes, I was married before.” And the taste of that was still bitter on her tongue. “I don't want to talk about that, Mikhail. Isn't it enough that we're good together, that I feel for you something I've never felt before? I don't want to analyze it. I just can't yet.”

“You don't want to know what you feel?” That baffled him. “How can you live without knowing what's inside you?”

“It's different for me. I haven't had what you've had or done what you've done. And your emotions—they're always right there. You can see them in the way you move, the way you talk, in your eyes, in your work. Mine are…mine aren't as volatile. I need time.”

He nearly smiled. “Do you think I'm a patient man?”

“No,” she said, with feeling.

“Good. Then you'll understand that your time will be very short.” He began to gather dishes. “Did this husband of yours hurt you?”

“A failed marriage hurts. Please, don't push me on that now.”

“For tonight I won't.” With the sky just beginning to deepen at his back, he looked at her. “Because tonight I want you only to think of me.” He walked through the door, leaving her to gather the rest of the meal.

He loved her. The words swam in Sydney's mind as she picked up
the basket and the flower. It wasn't possible to doubt it. She'd come to understand he was a man who said no more than he meant, and rarely less. But she couldn't know what love meant to him.

To her, it was something sweet and colorful and lasting that happened to other people. Her father had cared for her, in his erratic way. But they had only spent snatches of time together in her early childhood. After the divorce, when she'd been six, they had rarely seen each other.

And her mother. She didn't doubt her mother's affection. But she always realized it ran no deeper than any of Margerite's interests.

There had been Peter, and that had been strong and true and important. Until they had tried to love as husband and wife.

But it wasn't the love of a friend that Mikhail was offering her. Knowing it, feeling it, she was torn by twin forces of giddy happiness and utter terror.